Why are these pork chops so dry? Did you soak the bread in milk, or did you just chuck in water again? William prodded the crispy edge on his plate with theatrical disgust, as though searching for betrayal hidden among the mince.
Charlotte froze, tea towel in hand. Somewhere deep inside, a taut coil of resentment sprang up, bracing to snap. Shed been scrubbing the frying pan, hoping the evening would pass in peace. The dream of a tranquil supper perished before it even drew breath.
William, its proper beef. Nice, lean beef I bought at the farmers market after work. I added onion, spices, and an egg. Theyre not dry, theyre meaty, she replied, gripping her composure, not turning round.
Thats exactly it, her husband declared, waving his fork like a judge addressing the court. Lean. Mother always puts a knob of lard in, and some white bread. It has to be stale, soaked in rich cream. Then it melts in your mouth, light and succulent. But these well, theyre like the soles of my shoes, Charlotte, sorry to say. After fifteen years of marriage, youd think youd have mastered the basics.
Charlotte slowly set the sponge down, switched off the tap, and dried her hands. Fifteen years. Indeed. Fifteen years enduring the refrain: But my mother does, At my mums, Mum would have done it differently. First gentler, then instructional, and lately, comparisons so blunt she always trailed tennil.
She turned to look at William, who sat at the table radiating the melancholy of a food critic condemned to prison rations. His shirt was perfectly ironed by Charlotte. The tablecloth spotless laundered by Charlotte. The flat gleamed scrubbed by Charlotte. But none of it mattered; the chop wasnt like Mums.
If you dont like it, dont eat it, she said quietly. Theres a pack of sausages in the fridge.
Here we go again, youre offended, William rolled his eyes and dropped his fork loudly. Its for your own good. Criticism spurs us on. If I just sat and kept quiet, youd think this was gourmet cuisine. Mum says, Truth hurts but heals.
Your mother, Janet Dorothy, Charlotte took a step toward him, hasnt worked in thirty years. Her day revolves around soaking white bread in cream, mincing three different meats, and waxing the skirting boards. I, William, am the financial controller. We had the quarterly backup today. I walked in at half-seven, and by eight you had a hot meal. Did you notice that, or were you too busy missing the lard?
Here we go, William flapped a hand. I work, Im tired. Everyone works. Mum worked, and still managed. There was always a starter, a main, and pudding. My shirts were starched stiff as cardboard. She had a golden touch and really cared. But you? Youre always ticking boxes. Theres no womanly warmth, no spark.
The words plopped onto the laminate like rocks. No womanly spark. Just ticking boxes. Charlotte stared at her husband and, for the first time, saw a sulky, aging child whod never outgrown his mothers trousers but demanded royal service from another woman.
All those years, her patience had grown brittle: the mislaid socks, the wrong shepherds pie, the dust theatrically wiped with a white handkerchief on top of the wardrobe. Enough.
So, Im a poor housewife? she echoed, surprised at her own icy calm, as though the worst storm had moved through, leaving behind a frozen wasteland.
Well, not exactly poor William toned it down a notch at her expression, but couldnt resist. Lets say average. Theres room to improve. Mum, at your age…
Thats enough, said Charlotte, cutting in with a raised hand. Im done hearing about your mum. I get it. I cant give you the comfort and food you were spoiled with. To be honest, I doubt I ever could. Ive neither the will nor the strength.
So what are you suggesting? William snorted Divorce and maiden name over a pork chop? Dont make me laugh.
No, no divorce. Not yet. Ive got a proposition. If Janet is the angelic gold standard, then why should you have to suffer here with hopeless me? Wouldnt it be better for you, a man of such refined needs, to live where everythings just so?
Whats that supposed to mean? he asked warily.
I mean, William, you ought to spend some time where youre truly appreciated, understood, and, most importantly, properly fed. At your mothers.
William laughed; it echoed like a weird cackle bouncing off the walls.
Oh, Charlotte, you joker! You want me out? From my own flat?
If you remember, Charlotte replied with frosty politeness we bought this flat in marriage, but it was my bonuses that settled the mortgage and my parents paid the deposit. Im not kicking you out. Im suggesting a holiday. A restorative at Hotel Mum. Youre always raving about her. Go on, enjoy a month away. Escape my dry pork chops and unironed sheets. Ill use the break to brush up on soaking bread in cream.
Are you serious? the laughter slid off his face.
Dead serious. Im exhausted, William. Im tired of duelling with your mothers shadow. I want to come home and not worry about the cutlery sitting at the wrong angle. Pack your things.
William scraped back his chair with a bang.
Fine, splendid! You think Ill perish? Ill be living it up! Mum will be over the moon! She always said you dont take care of me see how I bloom under her wing. And you? Youll be lost on your own. If the bulb blows or the tap leaks, who will you call?
Ill hire a handyman, Charlotte shrugged. They fix things without moaning.
Williams departure was a full-scale pantomime. Shirts thrown into suitcases, sliding wardrobe doors slammed, half-muttered monologues about female ingratitude and idiocy. Charlotte sat with a book in the lounge, seeing nothing but listening to the commotion. She was frightened, but her fear lay deep; a bright, unexpected sense of relief bubbled on the surface.
Im off! he trumpeted at the hall mirror, suitcases at his feet. Dont think Ill come running back. Youll beg forgiveness when you realise what youve lost.
Leave the keys on the side, Charlotte said, not rising from her seat.
The door snapped shut. Silence fell not heavy but enfolding. Charlotte listened. The hush was yielding, restful. She went to the kitchen, looked at Williams abandoned pork chop, and dropped it in the bin. From the fridge, she fetched out a bottle of white wine, poured a glass, and for the first time in years, dined on nothing but cheese and honey not caring if it was bloke food or not.
The first week drifted by in a haze of quiet euphoria. No one woke her demanding bacon sandwiches at eight on Saturday, no one deserted socks by the sofa, no one switched her shows to football highlights. She took long baths, undisturbed by, Have you died in there? I need the toilet!
Williams paradise was more peculiar.
Janet Dorothy greeted her boy with arms stretched wide.
Billy! Dearest boy! Chucked you out, did she? I knew it! Always said she wasnt good enough for you! But never mind, petal come in, Ill feed you, warm you up!
The first two days really were bliss. At breakfast, paper-thin crêpes drizzled with cream; at lunch, dazzling beetroot soup and gooey pork chops; at supper, stuffed cabbage leaves. His mother flittered about, pressing second helpings, listening to grumbles about the wicked wife, clucking her assent.
By day three, things unravelled.
Used to having his space, William tried to sleep in Saturday morning. At nine, the door to his old boyhood room (where everything remained preserved in reverent squalor) banged open.
Billy, up! Breakfast is cold! Dont idle your life away! Janet yanked the curtains, flooding the room with a mean slant of British sunshine.
Mum its Saturday… a lie-in, please he mumbled, hiding beneath the quilt.
Nonsense! Routines are healthy. Ive made scones; eat them while theyre hot. And weve got the loft to declutter a mans hand is needed.
Dragging himself to the kitchen, William admitted the scones were good but then came the culture.
Come now, help with odds and ends. These magazines go to the tip, these to the village hall. Afterwards, well nip to the shops. I need five kilos of potatoes. I cant carry it myself.
Mum, Ive got a bad back…
Weve all got bad backs! Youve gone all soft, thats your wifes doing with her oven chips. Well soon have you right as rain.
He tried putting on an action film in the evening.
Billy, lower that racket! Ive a headache! And its all violence on telly. Switch on the antiques roadshow, or the choir concert.
Mum, its just a film! William protested.
Your TV, your rules. In my house, we have taste. Have some respect for your mother, after all I sacrificed.
Grinding his teeth, William retreated. He wanted to phone Charlotte, ask how she was, but pride held him back. She must be awfully sorry, crying now, he comforted himself.
Second week: the gloves came off. Janet not only cooked, she managed or micromanaged.
And where are you off to? she interrogated when William donned his jacket one evening.
To the pub just a few pints with the lads.
No, youre not! Its Tuesday, a workday. Besides, booze is poison. I lock up at ten, Im not getting up in the night to let you in.
Mum, Im forty-two! Im not a schoolboy!
Youre always a child to me. My roof, my rules. I dont stand for idleness or carousing. Its why you and your wife fell out too much latitude. Here we have standards!
So William stayed in, listening as his mother called her friend to dissect his failings and Charlottes neglect.
Yes, Mags, hes back. Thin, drawn, nerves all frayed shes run the poor chap ragged. Couldnt even boil an egg properly. Dont worry, Ill nurse him up.
It struck William: Charlotte had never banned beer with mates. Never woke him up when rest was needed. Shed cooked what he fancied no magic, maybe, but always kindly meant.
The food, too, began to turn on him. Janets kitchen was a festival of fats: everything roasted in dripping, dolloped with mayonnaise, swimming in butter. With a stomach now softened by years of roasted veggies and baked fish, Williams digestion revolted. He was forever stuffed and uncomfortable.
Maybe just boiled chicken? No frying? he ventured on Wednesday.
Are you ill? gasped Janet. Boiled chickens for invalids! A man needs a good stew; eat your casserole, Ive packed it with suet for flavour!
By the third week, Williams nerves were stretched to the brink. Loving your mother and loving her food turned out to be easier from a distance. Living with her ideal version of life was a full-time submission, endless reporting, and gratitude on tap.
Meanwhile Charlotte blossomed. She signed up for a Pilates class at the leisure centre, finally had coffee out with friends, and rearranged the bedroom, banishing Williams dust-magnet armchair. She discovered being alone wasnt scary. It was tranquil.
The doorbell sounded on Friday. Expecting her new bookshelf, Charlotte opened the door carelessly.
William stood there, battered suitcases in tow, defeated and with dark circles under his eyes, clutching a sorry bunch of limp chrysanthemums.
Hello, he mumbled, not quite entering.
Charlotte leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
Hello. Have you forgotten something?
Char, can we please talk?
I thought everything was clear. A month isnt up. Hows your retreat? Feeling restored? Food good at home?
Williams jaw twitched.
Char, spare me. I want to come back.
This isnt your home, William. Your home is where the cookings perfect and sheets crisp. Im not the standard, remember? Why leave paradise for this horror?
William put his cases down, exhaling heavily.
Im sorry. I was a fool. Truly. I didnt appreciate what we had.
No, you didnt, Charlotte agreed. What changed? Did your mum throw you out?
No. I legged it. Cant stand another minute! She controls the air I breathe! Wont let me near the telly! Im being force-fed fat; my heartburns relentless! She even critiqued how I brush my teeth! Char, youre a saint for putting up with my complaints. Id give anything for your shepherds pie the simple sort, no bells or whistles.
Charlotte regarded her husband. He wasnt lying: he looked properly worn down. Maternal affection had steamrolled all his adult eccentricities.
So my foods edible now?
Best in the world! Please, Char, let me come home. Swear down: never a word about Mum again. I can tell the difference between visiting and living now. I know what youve done for me. Ive just been spoiled, taken it for granted.
He made to hug her, but Charlotte stopped him with her hand.
Hold on. Apologies are nice, but going back to the same old business? No. I wont allow us to relapse. I dont want you finding dust bunnies just because the lessons faded in a month.
I wont! I swear!
Promises blow away in the wind. Heres the deal: you come back on probation, three months. No comparisons. If you dont fancy dinner, you cook yourself quietly. Unhappy with the ironing? Pick up the iron. Im your partner, not the help or your mother’s stand-in. We both work, both get tired lets share the load, or at the very least, appreciate each other’s effort.
William nodded vigorously.
Deal! Ill cook at weekends. I havent forgotten. Ill even do a curry. Please, let me in.
And once a week, you call your mum and tell her how brilliant your wife is, so she knows this isnt a penal colony, but a home.
Thatll be a challenge, he grimaced she thinks shes saving me.
Your circus, your monkeys. She only thinks badly because you let her.
William gazed at his wife with a new respect perhaps that iron will had always been there beneath her soft edges.
All right. Ill do it. Honestly, Char, I love you. I only now see how lucky I am.
Charlotte sighed and stepped aside.
Come on. But Im not unpacking your things, and suppers not ready. There are eggs and tomatoes in the fridge. Fancy making an omelette?
Gladly! William bounced in, suitcases thumping behind. Tomatoes! Superb! The best meal ever!
That night, they sat in the kitchen. William devoured his own salty, slightly botched omelette (proudly saying nothing) and laughed about mothers regime.
She put a woolly hat on me to take out the bins in fifteen degrees! Meningitis is no joke! she said.
Charlotte smiled. Williams mother had unwittingly vaccinated him against childish delusions. Janet Dorothy had rescued their marriage by showing her son a life so perfect he wanted to run a mile.
That weekend, William hoovered the flat himself. Wordlessly. He didnt mention mums two passes minimum. When Charlotte cooked soup, he ate two bowls and said:
Delicious. Thanks, love.
A month later, Janet Dorothy rang Charlotte.
Well, had enough, have you? My silly boy taken you back?
I took him back, Janet, said Charlotte calmly. And by the way, he sends his regards. He says he misses you, but hes happier here. We run a democracy, not a dictatorship.
Janet hung up. But Charlotte knew shed ring again. After all, William was still her son. But now, between their home and mother-in-laws influence, stood a sturdy wall bricked from hard-won respect and Williams time in paradise.
Life meandered back into its groove. William kept his word: the comparisons faded away. Occasionally, But mum would start to slip out, but hed catch himself, glance at Charlotte, and talk about something else. He slowly grew to value the comfort Charlotte created, knowing now that it wasnt magic but genuine work. And Charlotte discovered that sometimes, to save a marriage, boundaries need to be drawn sharp and clear and to let someone see what life is really like, over the fence of nostalgia.
For we only truly know what we have when we can compare and not every golden age stands up to the light of the real world.
